


Decay

by theghostsofeurope (baronvonehren)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2012-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-04 01:53:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baronvonehren/pseuds/theghostsofeurope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bite-sized character study of Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty. The prompt: "[t]here is a beauty in decay." Written for a dear friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HolmesianDeduction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolmesianDeduction/gifts).



There was a beauty in decay. Jim smiles and knits his fingers behind his head and stretches out further. "I didn't know you liked the stars," a voice to his left grunts, more concerned with fumbling with a beer can in the dark. Jim fights the temptation to sigh and kick him off the roof--of course, he's interested in "the stars", he did, afterall, write his thesis on the dynamics of asteroids. And besides, how could he not? Space was chaotic--an organized chaos. It was all so mappable and inevitable, like the trajectory of the asteroid and the proton decay of stars. While it was beautiful, it was also boring. He liked decay in people better; it was more unpredictable and there were more variables involved, it was also faster. It might take years for an asteroid to crash into another heavenly body, but it took seconds for a bullet to scramble white matter. His only regret was that people are much less dramatic than the collapsing of a star or the rip tear of black holes.

 

\---

 

There was a beauty in decay. Sherlock Holmes grins at the kitchen table, still peering down his microscope at the slide. "You know," John says, without looking up from his paper, "there are some people that would say that sort of behavior is indecent." It takes a moment to connect "this sort of behavior" and "indecent" to his current expression and his task at hand. So what, Sherlock thinks, still grinning, if people think it's "indecent". There is a beauty in dust and the inelegant processes of the body, and how people leave so much behind. People get so bothered by the shedding of snake's skin without thinking that they themselves are dropping of their own. Everywhere they go, they leave imprints of their presence. The human body is a marvelous thing--marvelous in its responses, the way it breaks down, even in the way it rots. Sherlock wouldn't trade humans for the world. His entire life has been devoted to reading them and dissecting them (sometimes literally) and figuring out what kills them and makes them kill. So sod it all, he should be allowed to be a bit indecent. "So it was the uncle then?" John looks up and Sherlock's face goes a bit warm before he grins more broadly.


	2. Chapter 2

It strikes Sebastian that he doesn't know anything at all about Jim. He knows things like: he sleeps an inordinate amount of time on the weekends, he has a soft spot for chocolates and a sweet tooth that leaves his tea undrinkable, he wakes up early for the singular purpose of taking long showers, and he hates to be called indecisive but he changes ring tones and ties several times a day. It humanizes him, Sebastian thinks, having all these little details. He doesn't need Jim to tell him that he spent most of his childhood dreaming about the stars or that he was obsessed with mythology. Sebastian knows, deep down, because of the wistful way Jim looks at the stars and the creases Jim left in his literature before he died. It's terrible, Sebastian thinks, that he didn't just get rid of me before he left his mark. It strikes Sebastian that he doesn't know what to do anymore. He crumples down, onto a hotel bed, and holds his head in his hands. It was bound to happen, he knew, that something would go wrong. The danger always builds exponentially until finally it's all done.

\--

It strikes John that he doesn't know what to do anymore. Sherlock is gone--he's left himself all over the flat. His chemistry set is on the table, right where he left it. There's an half-empty box of Thai food on the counter (he never did finish it all). A tea cup sits, precariously balanced on the arm of his chair. His robe is draped over the couch. John misses him, not really in the sense of missing him, but in the sense that he's just popped out for a bite. Sherlock disappears for hours, sometimes days, and that's usually not something to be afraid of. He wanders the streets sometimes, talking to the homeless. John knows, because one time Sherlock let him follow him. John kneads his brow with his fist. He's left all of this mess, all of his things. He's left me, John thinks silently, staring at the wall. That's what people do. They shed bits of themselves, leave it behind. But it's far from useless, you see. Dust, after all, is elegant.

**Author's Note:**

> The roof scene is from another story I've written , "20-20". (Sorry I'm encroaching on your territory, M.)


End file.
